


To No Set Gauge They Make Us

by azhdarchidaen



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Gen, Head Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, there are a lot of things that need to be patched up and some of them are literal, warnings for:
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-07-12 12:53:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7104259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azhdarchidaen/pseuds/azhdarchidaen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ford comes back through the portal immediately after an encounter that left him in critical condition, and the entire family has to deal with the complicated consequences.</p><p>(AU branching off during the ending of NWHS)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The tiny bubble of hope that rested somewhere in Stanley’s stomach had already gone through a frankly impressive set of gymnastics in the last 24 hours, but nothing could have desensitized him enough for the flip-flopping calisthenics it started performing when a shadowy figure began to emerge in the portal’s near-destructed frame.

It was exactly what he’d hoped for.

It was what he’d worked towards for the last three decades.

And it was so scarily _wrong_.

He’d considered the possibility, of course. Considered it almost every single day he’d worked on the damn thing, wracked with worry over where Ford had been sent and what might have lay in wait for him there. Even when the thought didn’t make itself known during the day, there were always the nightmares—the ones where his brother was hurt, or weak, or sick, or worst of all, Stan was through some combination of those things, too late to save him.

The ones that left him feeling even guiltier over the whole mess than usual.

The cloaked figure from the portal’s depth was moving under his own power, so he could at least breathe a sigh of relief he hadn’t failed—yet. But staggering motions and slow progress—a visible limp, and an awkward bearing that practically screamed “other significant injuries”—alluded only to things that worried him. Before Stan could even cry out a concern to him, the man cloaked in black collapsed to the ground, a neat little pile of travel-worn fabric that was suddenly tying his nerves into knots.

“Stanford!” he shouted, rushing forward almost immediately. If he was too late… if _this_ was all that his frantic work had accomplished...

Behind him he could already hear the confused murmurs of his niece and nephew: “Who is—?” “Wait, but Grunkle Stan, isn’t your name…?”

He turned to look at them with pained eyes, heart already torn between family members he needed to split attention between. The kids and Soos deserved an explanation, but his brother was clearly suffering from some complication he hadn’t yet pinpointed. To take care of both...

Stan took a deep breath. He wasn’t going to let _anyone_ down. Not this time.

“Kids, remember how I said I wanted to explain things to you?”

Dipper eyed him somewhat suspiciously, and he honestly couldn’t blame the kid. But Mabel just nodded, still looking slightly tearful from earlier.

“I’m going to, I promise,” Stan said, almost choking on the words because he could _feel_ how unbelievable they sounded in his own mouth. If those two had even a fragment of trust for him left in the first place, he was treading a delicate path should he wish to preserve it.

He took a deep breath.  “But I also said I was doing this for... for our family. And that means I gotta care of all of you.”

“What does that—?”

“Grunkle Stan—!”

However those protests were pushed forward was drowned out by worry as Stanley crouched closer to and directed his attention toward the crumpled form of his brother.

His right leg, the one that had obviously buckled under him, lay at an awkward angle. But for the most part, Ford had curled himself into a defensive ball as he’d fallen, apparently having hung onto enough consciousness to try to keep himself defended when he passed out. He probably didn’t even know he was home.

Stan felt a lump developing in his throat over the painful familiarity of the concept. You didn’t start pulling things like that until you had a few bad experiences. Until you were used to people hurting you, and couldn’t think of a better solution. Back when things were still, well, their worst for him, he’d had to practice the same thing in more than a few alleyways. Why did Ford slip so easily into the position now? Was that the kind of life he’d been stuck living? For thirty years?

Not a pleasant or conscience-easing thought.

And then, of course, there was the other concern entirely. It took everything in him for Stan to keep his hands from shaking too wildly to take off the other man’s heavy goggles, eyes instead fixated on what was definitely still a rising and falling motion to his chest. It was still there. There was still something, weak as it might seem, there.

He was actually here.

He was solid, flesh and blood.

…He was flesh and _bleeding_.

It was impossible to tell how far the damage extended under whatever heavy get-up Ford was wrapped in, but the minute Stan place a hand on his midsection in an attempt to probe for the injury he’d expected might be there, it came away red.

He blanched at the sight.

“Soos,” he finally managed to say, after staring at the liquid for longer than he probably could allow himself under the circumstances. He was painfully aware of how fragile his voice sounded. “Is the couch in your break room still clear? For someone to lie down on?”

The handyman hesitated, clearly still trying to process how much had happened in the last few minutes, but Stan could tell he’d also noticed Ford—a perfect stranger to Soos, and who hadn’t been in this world since before the young man was born—was injured. It seemed that despite the confusion, his soft heart won out rather quickly.

“S-Sure thing, Mr. Pines,” he said, in a voice trying so hard to be cheerful. “Do you need some help with the… um… the weird sci-fi guy or…?”

“I’ll carry him up,” Stan said softly.

“Should I call an ambulance or something?”

 _Yes. Probably._ Stan’s head screamed, and he could have kicked himself for having to verbally answer “No. Uh… trust me.”

Because sure, he hadn’t got a decent look at the injury yet and didn’t think he’d be able to in the dim light of the basement, but what if Ford _was_ so badly hurt he needed it? What if it was the only way to save him? He’d have cost his brother everything if that ended up being the case, all because the complicated explanations it would call for could get them all in trouble.

A fact he was even more painfully reminded of when Dipper spoke up just as he slipped his arms carefully under Ford’s body _(God, it felt like he’d lost weight....)_

“Um… Grunkle Stan? Th-The agents are still upstairs,” he said nervously.

_Fuck._

The distress must have been evident on his face, because Mabel chirped up in a voice somehow equal parts shaky and reassuring.

“Don’t worry, we can think of something I bet! Maybe… maybe if we wait it out they’ll go away?”

“They’re not gonna go away, Mabel,” Dipper sighed. “I don’t know how much time that guy,” he said, thumbing backwards at Ford, “would have to wait, and the only way they’ll leave is if we convince them that what they’re looking for isn’t—” Dipper then looked frustrated for a moment, before a thought almost visibly raced across his face. “Convince them what they’re looking for isn’t here! Grunkle Stan, if we can convince them that you got away, they’ll start looking for you someplace else!”

“What about you kids though?” Stan asked nervously, shifting Ford’s weight in his arms. “They’re lookin’ for you too, you know.”

Dipper frowned, clearly deep in thought. Slowly, more parts of a plan formed as he spoke. “Yeah… but last time we were with them, they knew we really wanted to rejoin you. If we make them think you escaped and we went _with_ you…”

“...Then I’ll have a _kidnapping_ charge.”

“Okay, maybe. But we also might be able to help… that guy,” Dipper said, gesturing towards him and Ford both.

Stan could tell the kid still has a suspicious edge to the way he was approaching him, and hadn’t missed the sentiment lurking within the statement “ _last_ time”, but the kid made more than a few good points. They were working under time constraints now, for the double reasons of the agents on the prowl and Ford literally bleeding out in his arms. He didn’t love the plan, but the sooner he could take both better care of his brother and try to apologize to the kids, the better.

“Alright,” he reluctantly agreed, “but that means _you_ two can’t be the ones to tell them that. And I can’t either so I guess that means…”

Everyone turned to look at Soos.

“Oh boy,” he said nervously. “You mean you want me… to tell them…”

“Soos, I know you can do this,” Stan said. Half-pleaded, at this point.

The expressions that flickered across the handyman’s face were so vivid and rapid Stan struggled to know what to make of them, but next thing he knew Soos was saluting at him.

“I won’t let you down, Mr. Pines!” he said solemnly.

From that declaration on and once Soos was up the stairs, Stan, Dipper, and Mabel could only watch the security camera screens in the lab in nervous anticipation. That made this second time in his life, the other being night with the zombies, that Stan decided they were the most important feature in the house.

He didn’t dwell on the fact that both times, family members’ lives were probably at stake.

It felt like a miniature eternity, but they managed to catch a window in which no one was around the vending machine exit—giving Soos ample time to sneak up, and outside of the Shack itself. After that the cameras only caught glimpses of what occurred.

A frantic conversation Stan couldn’t even try to lip-read, more of the agent guys getting called over and his heart skipping—it was only as he got a sinking feeling in his stomach, from the wild gesturing that Soos had to resort to, that he felt Mabel hugging his arm so tightly it was probably cutting off circulation. Not that he had much left in it from carrying Ford.

...He probably shouldn’t have picked him up so early, but once he’d made contact like that, it was impossible to bear the thought of letting go. Like his brother might slip away if he so much as shifted his hold wrong.

Dipper simply proved to be a bundle of nerves throughout the whole ordeal, absentmindedly biting the tip of a pen he must have retrieved from his backpack. The family waited in terrified silence, just a quiet clicking, arm squeezing, and nervously running fingers through the thick fabric of Ford’s coat the only things interrupting the silence for them each respectively.

Mabel didn’t relinquish her grip even as one of them handed Soos something that looked like a business card and the government vehicles started to load up and pull away.

“I can’t believe that actually worked,” Dipper breathed, finally exhaling the one they’d all been holding. Stan quirked an eyebrow at him.

“It was  _your_ plan, kid.”

His great-nephew shrugged _._ Stan couldn’t help but think of himself, and the number of his own quick escapes that applied to.

They waited about an agonizing minute more, the idea that it was safe to emerge still a little bit surreal until Soos’ shaky but cheerful “All clear, dudes,” came calling down the basement steps. Mabel’s fingers finally dug themselves out of Stan’s arm, and he and the twins both started a slow shuffle towards leaving the basement.

Encouraging as managing a single part of their plan was, Stan still had a sick feeling every time he felt the uneven movement of ascending the stairs jostle his injured brother in his arms.

His nerves weren’t calmed by the sudden blinking that accompanied emerging back up in the gift shop, the harsh sunlight streaming in the windows a strong contrast from the gloomy basement laboratory. In the new light, he became painfully aware of just how _pale_ Ford looked. Was he sick? Was it blood loss? Now that they were upstairs, and he had access to things like proper bandages and water, he was determined to figure it out. Finally retrieving his brother just to watch him succumb some dumb injury or weird sci-fi sickness would be too much to bear.

“Can one of you two get me the first aid-kit?” he asked the kids gruffly, and was surprised to notice they both nodded without any hesitation. He supposed any lingering distrust might currently be dampened by the fact that there was a clearly more pressing issue. Stan was a lot more emotional than usual right now, but he still felt like he could have teared up at that fact regardless—they didn’t even know who Ford was to them, and they were already trying to help him out.

They were good kids. All of them.

Carrying his brother’s limp form into the room discussed earlier, he noticed Soos trailing nervously behind him. As he set Ford down carefully on the sofa, trying his hardest to make him comfortable, the young man finally spoke.

“You uh…. you sure you don’t wanna call a hospital, Mr. Pines? He looks like he needs one...”

Stan pinched his nose in frustration, trying to think how he could even phrase his concern. Finally, words, even if they probably weren’t such good ones, tumbled out of his mouth.

“Listen, Soos, I don’t want to give the details until the kids can hear too, ‘cause there’s a lot to say but… uh… given what you just pulled off, and the guys out there lookin’ for me, all I know is things might not turn out so great for him if we tried.”

Soos looked down at Ford, seeming confused for a moment, but then seemed to accept Stan’s words as enough with a nervous laugh.

“He does kinda look like you, huh?” he said.

“Yeah…” Stan replied. “Yeah he does.”

In actuality, that fact had hit him with as much shock as it had any of his family when he took off Ford’s goggles, only just realizing in that moment that he _shouldn’t_ be surprised to see a face that looked more like his weathered own, and not the terrified young man he’d watched fall backwards, pleading for help, 30 years earlier.

That had been the image of Ford plastered in his mind for so long. One replacing it was raw and surreal.

“Here, Grunkle Stan.”

Mabel’s voice interrupted his thoughts as she lofted their first-aid kit in his directed. She had a very cautious smile, still clearly hoping that everything about this was or was going to be okay. He wished he could steal a little of her optimism.

“Thanks, kiddo,” he said, grabbing the case from her. “Let me have a minute to check Fo—this guy—over and I’ll try to start giving you those answers I promised.”

Again he received quiet nods from his niece and nephew, and found himself thanking whatever was possibly out there profusely for the kids’ incredible patience. Nodding gently at them in response, a silent agreement and promise that they were not forgotten in the slightest, he turned and knelt next to where his brother lay and started his examination.

His cursory check had revealed bleeding, but it wasn’t until he unfolded, and in a few cases actually had to cut through, the strange number of layers Ford was wearing that he actually caught a glimpse of the source—large, claw-mark gashes that began near his left shoulder and extended diagonally to almost his right hip. Further examination revealed similar, even deeper lacerations scoring the leg below. It seemed evident enough that he’d gotten on the wrong side of some creature, and recently, before ending up the worse for it.

The whole time he worked, Stan kept hesitating between shooing everyone else out of the room, not wanting the kids in particular to see the ugly wounds, and occasionally asking the others to get him something to help.

 _"Wet this washcloth, get some pillows so I can prop him up…"_ At one point, he asked Dipper to grab the strongest pain medication they had, under the assumption that hell knew if he could get his brother to take them while unconscious, but that he’d definitely want them when he woke up. But all it turned out they had was a nearly-empty old bottle of aspirin.

It wasn’t the only place they were woefully under-stocked. He had enough to perform basic first-aid, but a complete mauling by what seemed to be a decent-sized animal was not on that list. Not that he completely doubted his ability to—Stan was well, if largely self-, taught in treating wounds of decent severity. But his hands were tied without more and larger dressings for the injuries, not to mention better anti-bacterial treatments.

“We’re gonna need someone to go into town,” he finally said grimly.

“Most of us can’t leave the _house,_ ” Dipper said, exasperated.

“I can go, dudes,” Soos offered. “Although I think when gravity went all flip-flopped part of the Shack might have landed on my car…”

Mabel snapped her fingers. “Wendy! One of us should call Wendy.”

“How do you think Wendy’s gonna respond to us calling her and asking her to bring us _medical supplies_?” Dipper said.

“Probably more level-headedly than most people we know,” Stan muttered, chiming back into the conversation as he carefully fastened another of the bandages he actually had across his brother’s chest. “Just give her some of the facts and—”

“Grunkle Stan, _we_ don’t even know the facts!” Dipper protested.

Stan took a quick look at Ford, who had by no means come close to stopping him worrying, but whom he also wasn’t sure how much more he could do for unless they called his other employee as suggested. He then glanced at his distressed nephew.

Dipper’s eyes were wide and frustrated, a deep confusion burning in them and a look that spoke volumes of “I don’t want to be mad, but this is getting really hard!”

He slumped slightly from his position on the floor. The kids didn’t deserve to wait any longer, especially if he ever wanted there to be a chance they’d trust him again. As much as he feared he couldn’t tell the story right, it was time.

“I… don’t exactly know where to start,” he said, rising and fumbling over the words like he felt he hadn’t in years. Not since hiding behind the facade of someone who never did. “I guess the big stuff’s worth dropping right away since it’s not gonna get any easier to swallow. I mean, everything goes all weird, a guy appears in the basement, I ask you to help me with him even though he’s a complete mystery to you all... I guess the least I can tell you, if you want to know who he is, this is… well... he’s my brother.”

 

* * *

 

Ford’s lungs burned as he moved, something he found almost bitterly ironic given the speed he was barely managing. It would be generous to call his current limp any kind of run. The beast pursuing him had pounced as he set up warily camp for the night—not warily enough, it seemed, as he was now already at a horrible disadvantage in trying to escape.

Of course, the current blurriness of his thoughts was probably the reason it had slipped under his radar, so he supposed his dash for safety would have been hindered regardless. For a dimension that had seemed deceptively friendly at first, he was definitely crossing this on off his “I could survive landing back here again” list. Driven out into the barren purple wastelands when the city he’d caught a night’s refuge in abruptly descended into a warzone, Ford had living by his wits here long enough that the unforgiving landscape was finally taking his toll.

He’d been starting to run dangerously low on supplies to begin with, but the group of bandits that had ambushed him three nights ago and made off with what little surplus he’d ever found to squirrel away had guaranteed it. The swift kick to the head one of them had given him when he tried to retrieve it hadn’t done wonders for his cognition either. Really, being fair to himself, it was a perfect storm of hindrances that were the reason he found himself a possible item on this angry Ravabeast’s next menu. The series of events he'd dealt with this week hadn't done wonders for his alertness.

Ford supposed he could at least pat himself on the back for avoiding this sort of situation about 3 times out of 5 now, but 60% didn’t mean much when it _had_ failed you, and the current one could be your last.

He scanned the horizon, looking at all side for a possible escape. Unfortunately, though the terrain of his surroundings was rocky (rocky enough he hadn’t found anything edible growing here since he lost his supplies…), it was fairly solid and as a result lacked good hiding places. Perhaps he should have chanced it the city after all. Too late now.

Out of nowhere—or possibly what was a very perfectly reasonable place that his half-starved and probably-concussed brain just hadn’t registered (its current capacity was  _also_ something likely hovering near 60%)—a rock in his path proved the final instrument of his downfall. Hitting the ground, hard, he took a few too many moments to even muster the energy to get up.

Before his wind was back, the beast in pursuit of him had pounced, the same claws he’d felt deeply in his leg just minutes earlier now raking across his upper body and shoulders. He gritted his teeth, trying not to give it the satisfaction of making him cry out in agony, but the sensation was somewhat dulled by the fact that everything had gone a bit more foggy.

 _It’s toying with me…_ he managed, in a blur of pain-clouded synapses. _Usually one of these creatures would have already bitten in… this one might not even be hungry._

Well, as much as he should probably dislike the thing for considering eating him, he envied it _that_.

It also meant that going limp and silent in its grip—as he’d planned—and playing dead wouldn’t spare him any time. He'd studied the hunting habits of these creatures well enough to know they liked their prey fresh—so fresh, that is, that they’d lose interest when it stopped wriggling. If it wasn’t even batting him around to eat though… he guessed maybe he didn’t have to beat up himself up for letting loose a small sort of whimper.

Sharp claws once more dug into his shoulder, and Ford had the disappointing thought that it was just his luck, of all the ways he’d ever risked going, this was undoubtedly one of the more painful options.

But before he could wander down any other morbid trails of contemplation, there was an odd crackling sound. The beast attacking him perked up its pointed ears like an alert wolf, if wolves’ ears could rotate in multiple directions searching for a source and also there were four of them.

Alright, so maybe the first thing to go as the life ebbed out of him was his ability to form metaphors. He idly hoped Mrs. Lange from 10th grade English would forgive him, those had usually earned him high marks from her on his papers.

Of course, she’d also told him he was too good a writer to _waste_ it by becoming a _scientist_ —maybe he wouldn't be bleeding out on the barren ground of an alien planet if he'd listened.

The strange crackle continued, and Ford became vaguely aware of the far that the pressure accompanying the claws on his chest was releasing, Whatever was causing the sound seemed to have the Ravabeast running scared. Should he be scared too? He wasn’t so sure he cared.

With a soft whine, the predator that had almost had him for dinner scampered off, giving Ford a clear view of…

_Oh, thank anomalies with their basis in Einstein’s theory of relativity._

It was a shimmering, glistening tear in space-time, and as highly inadvisable as it was to literally flirt with the laws of physics, Ford felt vaguely like kissing it.

He staggered upright, slowly, head already threatening rebellion at the action. But he knew if he could just get through this gateway, he might end up in a place where he could actually nurse these wounds and survive.

There was, of course, every chance it could be worse, but he hadn’t made it decades in the multiverse by grumpily assuming his next destination would spell his doom. His chances here were, as about three factors had proven, quite slim. It was a bet he’d take.

Funny thing was, something seemed vaguely familiar about this particular instability. Sure, he’d slipped through more than a few during his travels, but this one in particular felt like it was _tugging_ on some specific, long-buried memory. Maybe if his head was a little less battered he could summon the proper one, but thinking at all was surprisingly difficult, and all he could manage at the moment was gratitude it had appeared at all.

Maybe he’d be able to figure it out later.

Maybe he could make it.

Injured leg protesting with every step, Ford stumbled forward, bracing himself for the unsettling static shock of dimensional travel. He could weather it. This would work. He just had to try to get a decent look at his next set of surroundings before he lost his grip on consciousness completely.

The other dimension he slowly limped into was cool and dark, though perhaps a little bit musty. Maybe this gateway had opened indoors? That happened sometimes. It was always a little inconvenient for everyone involved. But Ford actually liked the odds if it was true even more. He knew from awkwardly specific personal experience that people could be surprisingly compassionate when a bleeding man came out of nowhere and collapsed on their floor.

He took in a few figures—maybe four? two of them were awfully small, that boded well too; killing him on the spot was always a less popular option, even for enemies, when there were children around—and what seemed to be broken machinery scattered about before the toll of his ordeal grabbed hold in a way that wouldn’t let go.  
  
As much as information he’d tried to gather, whether this new location was any safer than the last was a complete mystery. Feeling his general weakness take over, and injured leg buckle under him, Ford found himself clinging sadly to the hope that his fading vision was of a place that wouldn’t be the last he ever saw.


	2. Chapter 2

Wendy slammed on the brakes of her dad’s truck the minute the Mystery Shack came into her view. Never mind that she wasn’t getting her license for over a month, the minute she’d gotten a call from Dipper and Mabel saying they needed help, she’d jumped in the seat without a second thought.

The drive had been uneventful, save for some weird wreckage in the road and a brief detour away from main street, where something seemed to be going down with a load of—were those _government_ vehicles? At the very least, they were police cars, and she didn’t particularly feel like getting pulled over with current her lack of registration

One of the advantages of getting your driving lessons from Stan Pines: she was already _great_ at dodging tickets.

Town had looked pretty beat up, and now that she was at the outskirts and getting a look at the Shack, things didn’t look any better. Maybe even worse. Wendy had deduced easily enough from the kinds of stuff they wanted her to bring—bandages, antibacterial cream, pain meds—that _someone_ was hurt, and while they hadn’t explicitly explained why they needed her to grab them, it was enough to make her worry. Given the weird things gravity had been doing lately, her imagination could offer plenty.

It was a short walk from where she’d parked to the porch, if one fraught with debris. She knocked on the door a few times, and got another one of those vaguely-worried feelings when no one responded.

Her arms full, courtesy of the box of supplies she was bringing, Wendy decided to try nudging the door—whose hinges seemed to have snapped in the topsy-turvyness earlier today and left it hanging awkwardly in its frame—with her shoulder.

“Anyone here?” she called out when it easily swung inwards.

Finally—which was a real relief given the eerie desertedness that hadn’t exactly reassured her of _anything_ —there was a rapid response to the verbal query. Dipper and Mabel both tumbled into the hallway to greet her, scrambling one after the other like their legs couldn’t bring them any faster.

The young twins looked frazzled, but aside from a few scrapes and bruises, unharmed. That crossed at least a few worries off her list, though given that it had been the twins’ frantic voices on the other end of the receiver, not too many. Although Wendy did note, on a closer inspection as Mabel reached her and flung her arms in a tight hug around her, that it looked like there were dried tear-tracks down the younger girl’s face.

She vaguely wondered if the culprit of that was something she could punch.

“You came!” Mabel said, squeezing her even tighter, as Wendy eased the box in her arms upwards to keep it out of the way.

“Of course, man—it sounded like one of you was really in trouble, I wasn’t going to bail on you.”

She noticed Soos trailing into the hall behind them, though, and her face fell as the remaining options for calling her here raced through her head. Process of elimination would mean...

“...Oh man, is it Stan?” she asked, worried. That’d definitely explain why the kids seemed so bent out of shape at the moment. And why everything about this felt...weird. Usually Stan would be sort-of-in charge—well, as in charge as he ever was

Dipper and Mabel shook their heads in sync. If it wasn’t him, then…?

“No, he’s with his—”

“Actually there’s someone—”

Mabel and Dipper respectively started and stopped explanations, looking back to exchange meaningful glances with Soos. All he could do in response was shrug.

“There’s a lot to explain,” Dipper said, breathing deeply. “It’s… kinda weird?”

“I can take weird,” Wendy said. “This whole _summer_ has been weird.”

There was an awkward pause as the three people who seemed to have any idea what was going on formulated their thoughts, which was then abruptly broken as they all tumbled out explanations at once.

“Stan has a twin brother!”

“There was this big glowy thing in the basement, and it leads to other worlds…?”

“So we may have… slightly… found the Author.”

“Woah woah woah,” she said, putting her hands up, “I can take weird but like, you gotta _organize_ it a little. You guys are talking about like three different things!” ”

The others looked sheepish, but she decided to continue anyway. This was all getting too damn confusing. She’d come over here worried, that hadn’t been resolved at all, and she still had a hell of a lot of questions.

“No no no,” Dipper said, taking a deep breath, “They’re all the same thing, honest. We just… we just found out too, okay? And it’s super weird and Stan’s really worried and…”

“Okay, just… slow down,” Wendy eased, already able to tell he was working himself up in frustration. She might have reacted a little strongly—especially since it seemed like everybody else was only slightly less confused than she was. “How about you start with the basement thing? Because, like… since when has this place even _had_ a basement?”

“It was _hidden_ ,” Mabel said.

“The entrance was behind the vending machine,” Soos added. “It had more secrets to share with us than we could have known...”

“It turns out there was this secret lab underneath the Shack,” Dipper said, probably most helpfully. “Sort of… I guess sort of like the bunker we found?”

Wendy nodded. “Okay, that… kinda makes sense.”

“And in the secret lab there was this machine… Grunkle Stan called it a portal, the journals seemed to make it sound like something more dangerous.”

“Wait, so Stan knew about it?”

Mabel seemed to see this as an opportunity to take over. “He knew about it because he was trying to fix it! Because a long long time forever ago his twin brother fell in and got lost and he really wanted to get him back!”

“His _what?_ ” Wendy said, “Mabel, you lost me.”

“No, no, she’s right,” Dipper said. “At least… if Grunkle Stan told us the whole truth, finally, the thing… portal... in the basement was built to lead to other worlds. And he really does have a twin brother we didn’t know about, who was the one who built it in the first place. Except there was an accident 30 years ago, and he got stuck on the other side.”

“That sounds… improbable,” Wendy said, trying to process.

“But don’t you see?” Dipper continued, voice rising in pitch. “Wendy, _he_ was the Author. Stan’s brother, I mean. He built the portal because he was here studying things, and he was writing the journal for the same reason. And it all mysteriously stops because _he really did go missing_!”

“Yeah, no, I’m just still a little hung up on ‘Stan has a twin brother’,” she said. The way Dipper laid it out especially, it really _did_ make some sense. Except it was just… and wait a minute, then why had they…?

She picked up the box from the floor again, gesturing with it slightly as she spoke. “If _that’s_ what’s going on here, then what exactly was it you needed _these_ for?”

Soos, Mabel, and Dipper all exchanged concerned glances, and Wendy felt the worry bubble back up a little.

“Well…” Mabel said. “It doesn’t seem like wherever he was was a very nice place.”

“He came through the portal and he just fell down!” Soos said. “Mr. Pines doesn’t think we can call an ambulance, and I trust him about it but…”

“...he’s really badly hurt,” Dipper finished. “Stan’s in there with him right now, we should probably bring in this stuff as soon as possible, but…”

One look at their faces and Wendy started to piece together even more of the story than they’d spoken aloud. She felt a bit like hitting herself. Because of course, if this guy was Stan’s brother, that meant he was family to them _too_. Another great-uncle, right? That was how that worked, she was pretty sure. And if they were still trying to process this crazy new information while simultaneously getting all worried about him…

“I’ll take the stuff in, okay?” she said, putting on the best smile she could to try to reassure the twins. “You guys can go in the kitchen or something, I threw some of these in with the med stuff when you called ‘cause I figured if something bad was going on the rest of you might appreciate them.”

Wendy fished her hand around in the box, sticking her tongue out slightly in concentration so as not to mess with any of the still-neat bandages. She pulled out a fistful of instant hot-chocolate packets, and handed them to Mabel.

“I know the kind with the little marshmallows are your favorite,” she said, “I could only find one of those packs though, the rest don’t have ‘em.”

Mabel accepted them from her what looked like almost tearfully, but there was a little grin on her face now, making Wendy glad she’d thought to toss the things in.

“Is Stan just down that way?” she asked, loosing an index finger from her grip on the box to point down the hall.

“Yeah he’s… well, um. You’ll see,” Dipper said, quietly, pointing down the hall as he spoke. “The door’s... I think you know the room.”

She nodded, once again starting down the hallway.

As she first entered the room—that one that Soos had found in the middle of the summer, that was still sort of a mystery—the only person she noticed at all was Stan. He seemed too lost in his thoughts to turn even when the door creaked slightly as she nudged it with a foot to make clearance enough for the box in her arms. He was hunched over, seated next to the couch, and looked like his thoughts were everywhere but present. But a closer look revealed he held another hand in his own, and Wendy realized that the pile of blankets and what actually looked to be thickly layered, warm clothing on the couch in front of him was shallowly breathing, and she inhaled sharply at the revelation.

Sure, maybe she should have thought a little harder about it when Dipper and Mabel had said something about a twin, but the sheer strength of the resemblance between her boss and the stranger he was clutching tightly was staggering. She couldn’t see much above the layers draped across him, and it was true that his hair was much wilder, and still greying, but in the face the two men looked nearly identical.

Everyone in the hall being so shaken up was starting to make more and more sense.

“Mr. Pines?” she probed cautiously, stepping fully inside the room. The man jumped at the sound but turned to face her

“Wendy!” he said, dropping the stranger’s hand in surprise, “You’re here!”

“I came as soon as I got the call, although it took a little while. Town is… kind of a wreck,” she admitted.

“And did you bring—?”

“—All in here,” she replied, lifting the box slightly. Stan leapt from his seat to peer inside, grabbing a roll of bandages with little second thought.

“Thanks,” he said. “We, uh… we really needed these.”

“Need any help with actually treating him?” she asked. Stan paused for a moment, hesitating.

“You of all people _would_ know weird stuff like how to deal with animal attacks, wouldn’t you?” he said.

Wendy raised an eyebrow, but nodded. “Yeah, definitely.”

“Alright. Gimme a hand here then, two of us might actually come in handy.”

Stan started to pull back the blankets over his brother, which Wendy had wondered about given the current heat of the summer weather. Her expression must also have been quizzical, because he trailed into an explanation.

“I patched him up with what we had, but it’s still pretty bad. The kids were in here earlier and I just… I didn’t want them seein’ anything too rough, you know?”

Given the already tear-stained faces she’d seen in the hall, Wendy thought he’d probably had the right idea.

Despite the warning, she still let out a small hiss when the actual damage—which had been bandaged, but lightly, and was already bleeding through—came into view. It was really more from sympathy than anything, but Stan must have assumed otherwise because she noted him moving to once again cover the wounds.

Placing a hand on his own to stop the motion, she instead grabbed the anti-bacterial cream from her box, knowing it was probably the first thing they’d need.

“You wanna take this all off so we can clean it up and start over?”

Stan just gave an affirmative-sounding grunt in response, already starting to unwrap the thin bandage he’d tried to staunch the bleeding with.

They worked in relative silence, both intuitively understanding for the most part what needed attention and how to apply it—Wendy had learned long ago there was no use in questioning Stan’s knowledge of certain subjects, and this, it seemed was one of them. And yet for the confidence they both held in the logistics, there seemed to be some minor complications in the execution. Specifically, that with every cleaning of a cut cleaned and strip of gauze wrapped, Stan’s hands were shaking.

The silence, she could tell, was not solely a product of their capability.

“I kinda get it, you know,” she said softly, eventually deciding that the man with the injuries was probably not the only one who needed attention.. Stan jumped a little, so lost in his focus on the task at hand—or perhaps thoughts tied to it that wandered elsewhere—that it caught him by surprised.

“I mean…” she continued. “A little bit. Emphasis on the ‘kinda’, I… I guess I really don’t. But the whole brother thing—”

“—They tell you that much?”

“Um, yeah. It was pretty jumbled, but I think I got the gist of it,” she said. “And… you know. I guess it just...” she paused, wondering if offering this kind of sympathy was any help at all, or just a false equivalency, inserting herself into a situation so current, so _complicated_ , and that ran, apparently, decades deeper than any of her own.

“...I dunno, it just reminded me a little of a couple winters back, we were messing around in the woods sledding and Joel just _slammed_ into a tree. Like, really hard. He was in super bad shape — we had to take him to the hospital, which is _so_ not Dad’s normal attitude—and even though it turned out okay, all I could think of for a few days was… Mom. And that kind of thing is just…” she trailed off.

“...Scary,” Stan finished, like his shaking hands didn’t spell his thoughts out clearly enough.

“Scary? It’s fucking terrifying,” she said, and Stan shot a quick glance in the direction of the doorway as if to ensure more sensitive ears hadn’t been close enough to catch the profanity.

They weren’t.

“Yeah. It’s fucking terrifying,” he breathed in agreement.

“Even that wasn’t, like, the same though,” Wendy tacked on, hoping she wasn’t coming across as… minimizing any of this, or some junk like that. Saying _something_ seemed important right now, but doing sympathy right was _hard_. “I mean, I’d been arguing with him at breakfast that morning, it wasn’t like he’d been… gone, or missing or something. So… you know. I’m sorry if that was—”

Stan breathed in deeply, straightening his back a little as he did so, he’d been hunched so heavily over his brother’s crumpled form that it came as a bit of a surprise.

“—No, no, it was… perspective. I gotta remember to have some perspective, you know?”

Wendy wasn’t sure how to respond to that, and didn’t know what else to say. There was slightly less work to punctuate an awkward silence now, mostly just tucking in the loose ends of bandages and looking at their handiwork with slight concern. That probably wasn’t the best thing for Stan right now. She spit out the first thing she could think of to keep him talking.

“So… uh… what’s his name?

Stan got a nervous look in his eyes, like this was an incredibly difficult question to answer. But eventually, he spoke.

“He’s… um. He’s Stanford, not me. I had to take the name to keep the deed to the house, if I lost it there was no getting him back at all, and so…”

Not the answer she’d been expecting. Wendy blinked.

“We mostly just called him ‘Ford’ though. One of those guys that always went by a nickname, you know?”

“Like Dipper.”

Stan (....Stan?) gave a sudden laugh, with more complicated undertones than she could even identify. “Yeah, uh… a lot like Dipper. He was… at least he used to be, when I knew him.... He was a lot like Dipper.

Wendy wasn’t sure if her next question was one he should even ask, but it was burning on the tip of her tongue now, and probably inevitable.

“So then what’s y—”

“—Stanley. My, uh. My name was… my name _is_ …. Stanley.”

She quirked an eyebrow. “Parents weren’t real creative?”

“Parents weren’t expecting twins,” he said gruffly.

“Ah.”

There seemed so little else to say, their eyes instead focused on the gentle rise and fall of the chest they’d just bandaged. Wendy’s mind ran through options, but they kept seeming to awkward, too personal, too insincere. How did you even offer help to someone whose whole world had pretty clearly been flipped upside-down? That, and she felt like she knew Stan even less than ever before. It left her wishing more problems could be solved—or at least abated—with tiny marshmallows.

Fortunately. as if sensing that nothing else would cleave the oppressive silence, it was the injured man’s turn to stir.

“He’s waking up?” Stan said, sounding panicked.

“I mean… that’s good, right?” Wendy said, confused. “Tough guy, but…”

“What if it ain’t, what if all this,” Stan gestured wildly around the room, hand finally settling in a direction pointed towards himself, “sends him into shock or something? It’s been thirty years, and he’s been… and I’m…. _I_ could set him off!”

“He’s gotta find out _sometime,_ if he’s going to get better,” Wendy said.

Stan got a look of slight revelation.

“Listen,” he said. “You tell him.”

“Me?”

“You’re the other one here, you tell him. I’ll be in the hall, I’ll come in in a minute, but we can… you know. Try to ease him into it.”

“What do you even want me to _say_ ?” she said, voice rising with a tiny bit of stress. It was the sort of thing she’d normally have clamped down on immediately, no matter how she felt _inside_ , but this was weird, man. Everything about this was fucking weird.

“Tell him he’s back on Earth, tell him… I don’t know, he’s safe or something. Just. Let him get over one shock before I aggravate any more, he already looks fragile enough to break in two!”

Wendy couldn’t disagree with that. Trying to acclimatize this guy to everything might be the best move, even if she didn’t feel so equipped to do it.

At least Stan seemed to notice _that._

“I’m… I’m sorry to shove this on you, Wendy,” he said. “But you might be—”

“—the only person for the job, yeah,” she said, trying to pull her calmer mask back on. “I don’t blame you for wanting my rad skills.”

“Never say those words in front of me again.”

She shot him a grin. “I’ll do what I want, old man, you probably owe me like raise or something for this already.”

Stan finally smiled slightly at her in response—it was weak and unsure, and she couldn’t blame him. Honestly, hers probably was too. But the normality of their usual banter creeping in was reassuring to them both, she was sure.

“You probably oughta get out of here in time,” she said. “Otherwise we need another plan.”

“R-Right,” Stan said, nervously. He rose from his seat, heading towards the door. He had disappeared behind the frame completely when he poked his head back in, almost an afterthought.

“Oh, and Wendy?” he said. She swiveled backwards to face him.

“Yeah, Mr. Pines?”

“...Thank you.”

The bubble in her throat still had a lot of worry in it, now mixed with the stress of what had become her task—but there was something else there, something newer, that felt like it might choke her up.

 

***

 

It was a good sign, Ford thought, that he woke up.

Well, not _just_ that he woke up. That itself _was_ imperative, but there was also the fact that he didn’t wake up restrained, further abused, or with a gag in his mouth, all scenarios that generally implied things were spiraling even further downhill from “collapsing”

Admittedly, the well-lit room Ford came to in was viciously still assaulting his senses. He knew they were even more delicate than usual, courtesy of that unfortunate head injury—but the bright lighting was causing a piercing throb that made him want to curl back in on himself, the likes of which the dying sun of the last dimension had slightly spared him. Everything was a bright and painful blur, and he had a sneaking suspicious it wasn’t only because he was missing his glasses.

Still, from what little he could see of it, he had a place on something that actually felt nice and soft, and it actually gave Ford some pangs of nostalgia for Earth-46’/. Something about the dimensionally-transcending charms of tacky wallpaper. He’d find a way to spin this positive—he had to.

For example, his throat currently felt like sandpaper and the lacerations he’d sustained had moved into the “deep and pulsating ache” stage, but the sensations were the kind he’d slowly grown grateful for. They were grounding. When you sustained that much damage, it was a reassurance to wake up and still be painfully aware you were alive.

He became vaguely aware of the fact that the worst of his wounds seemed to be constricted in tight, clean bandages. Another sign he’d shakily accept as optimistic. Of course, he’d had instances enough of people helping him for their own nefarious purposes, but there was still something strangely lulling about his current location… perhaps it meant this was one of the fortunate times someone was taking care of him because, for who knows what reason, they actually _did_ care.

It was that thought that proved the segue to realizing he wasn’t alone in the room.

Assuming he wasn’t hallucinating—and being fair, he wasn’t so sure he had reason to trust _any_ of his senses at the moment besides “pain”—there was a girl, an actual _human_ girl, standing near where he lay. It was impossible, of course, to make out anything remotely helpful about her, like her expression, or exact manner of dress (something he’d decided was an important detail after starting to pick up on the symbols and adornments of assorted antagonistic organizations across the multiverse) but she certainly _was_ distinctive enough from her shock of bright red hair to stand out. She seemed to have noticed he was coming to, because she knelt down a little closer to him like she was about to communicate.

“I guess it’d be pretty stupid to ask if you were feeling alright, huh?”

He tried to formulate a response to that, even just a simple “Well…” but his tongue stuck in his mouth. Everything was too bright and very fuzzy and he was really starting to get the sensation that what he should have done, no matter how dangerous the circumstances, after his head was injured the other day was “lie down”

The girl seemed fairly perceptive to this.

“Oh man," she said, sounding worried, "we were just treating the cuts and bites and stuff, but you’ve got like a concussion or something too, don’t you?” She leaned in, getting a closer look at him and causing Ford to try to flinch back as gently as he could without it hurting. (It still did.) “Your eyes are all wonky, the pupils aren’t the same size.”

Noting this information, because it was both a bad sign _and_ something he couldn’t tell about himself, the concerned though crossed his mind that the girl might be examining him to determine possible weaknesses.

“Where am I?” he managed to rasp slowly. It was a difficult exertion, but as he also knew, sometimes a very important question, the answer to which was always best known as immediately as possible.

The girl opened her mouth, and paused. She looked like she didn’t know how to respond— _were_ they keeping secrets?

“Um….” she said slowly, “...you’re on Earth…”

_Earth??_

Both highly improbable _and_ suspiciously phrased. Most people didn’t start their descriptions that way. They gave you a town, a county or precinct—not a planet.

“Earth?”

“Yeah… I. Well I mean…” the girl seemed lost for words, something he could manage to tell from just her voice. She made a series of frustrated noises, then picked things up again. “Listen, I’m sorry, this is hard to explain. I’m gonna do a bad job, I can tell, so just… please don’t freak out. I won’t freak out if you don’t.”

Ah. So it was entirely possible he’d ended up in a dimension where multiversal travel was not a regular occurrence—her stress seemed likely to be a product of a strange man appearing out of the middle of nowhere. He wasn’t sure how much he had it in him to explain, but it did seem like a good sign towards her bearing little ill-intent.

He took a deep breath, regretting it when his shredded chest protested against the expansion, but hoping to speak all the same, and tried to recall how he usually handled these sorts of situations.

“Well it seems like… first…. ought to thank you….” he slurred, the words feeling vaguely like jelly as they slid off his tongue. Apparently he was down to about a four-word limit verbally. That might complicate things a bit.

The girl, however, wasn’t listening.

“You’re back, okay? You’re where you came from, on Earth, in Gravity Falls, Oregon. I work for Stan….ley….. Stanley Pines, and from what I understand he’s the one that got you here, and I don’t know how he did it, but it means you’re back.”

Still processing the words, (too much information, that was too much _highly specific_ information—was this something to do with Bill? Had he been captured?) Ford idly wondered if the velocity his head was spinning at was at all exacerbated by his injury or if the nausea he could feel slowly developing would have showed up regardless, seeing as—

“Wendy literally _none_ of that was easing!"

“I’m sorry, Mr. Pines, I didn’t know what else to say!”

It was at that point that enough of Ford’s body went rigid he regretted the very existence of adrenaline, injuries protesting the sudden reaction. But he couldn’t help it. If the girl spitting out names that no one he’d interacted with in 30 years ought to know hadn’t convinced him this situation should set him on edge, the familiar voice that had just joined the conversation had clinched it. Stanley couldn’t be… that _wasn’t_ … was this some sort of awful trap? Was he having a fever dream?

Before he could contemplate more terrible alternatives, he realized a taller figure had stepped into the room. One that, as far as he could tell, looked suspiciously like…

“...Stanley?” he breathed.

The man, who looked nothing like his brother as he remembered him (but that would be the most accurate depiction of him now, he supposed), stepped closer.

“Yeah, Poindexter. It’s—”

“—No!” Ford said weakly. He had meant to be forceful, but he supposed the initial positive appraisal of his surroundings being sucked away from him was as weakening as his injuries. If this was a trap, he was in no state to fight it. He was so tired, everything hurt—one of his ongoing mantras for 20-something years, beginning after he’d nearly broken down over his situation, was to never give in to any sort of despair. But in this case, it already felt suffocating.

“...No?” the man said, sounding hurt. _Just an illusion, a very good illusion...._

“No, this…. this can’t be real,” Ford continued to babble. “Can’t… I know it… _please_ ….”

The entire posture of both people standing near him softened, as they exchanged what looked like worried glances.

“It’s real, dude, we promise,”

“Sixer, I’m being honest with you. I—I found all those books of yours. You gave me the first one, I found the others… used ‘em to fix everything up. To bring you home. And… and I’m sorry it took so long, but you _are_ here.”

Ford didn’t know which of the safety alarms in his head to listen to or turn off, but either way there were far too many of them and he was in no state to respond properly. Everything was ringing at once, as his head felt like it was _actually_ ringing, and the lights here were too bright, and he was still so weak… and… and…

“Listen to me,” the man saying he was Stanley pleaded. “I know it’s hard to believe, _I_ honestly can’t believe it either but… this isn’t some dream or something. I mean… look at Wendy! Your wouldn’t make up Wendy, would you?”

He was pointing towards the girl. Something in the cool, logical part of Ford’s brain managed to grab hold again, and started turning over the facts. A person he didn’t recognize being present _wasn’t_ proof against a number of un-ideal scenarios, but it _did_ seem to at least point away from being one of Bill’s illusions. That wasn’t his style. Which could still land him as being seriously ill, dreaming, or delusional, but possibly cared for in benevolent hands. That was infinitely better than any sort of captivity.

...And of course.... he couldn’t _entirely_ eschew the possibility…

He felt his right hand fold into someone else’s, and the tight affectionate squeeze drew a breath from him he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding.

Home.

It would explain the odd familiarity of the hole in space-time he’d stepped through, the fact that he seemed to be being cared for… it brought with it horrific complications, of course, if Stanley really had been idiotic enough to ignore all his warnings, and even if it meant a slight lull at the moment, horrific danger would be lurking just beyond the horizon.

But so battered as he was right now, barely even able to think through the specifics of what those consequences might be, part of him just wanted to accept it.

“...Stanley?” he said once again, softer this time.

The other hand squeezed his. “I’m here, Poindexter.”

“Why didn’t… you listen…?”

“Listen to what?”

Ford felt vaguely angry about the fact that it was seeming more and more like he _was_ home, and that it was because his warnings had been recklessly ignored and given little thought. But even if he _wanted_ to turn this into a shouting match, mostly out of fear of the danger everyone was now in and the guilt of old mistakes once again taking hold, he simply lacked the energy.

He’d been riling up to at least bark _something_ about the journals, about how if Stanley really had found them he should’ve seen the instructions to never start the portal again, but his terrified ire hooked on something more physical in his throat and all that actually came out was a horrible hacking cough.

As the fit passed, he noticed new blood spattered across one of the blankets on top of him.

“...To me,” was all he could instead provide, weakly.

Stanley was entirely distracted by the episode and looking nervously the blood, another thing that annoyed Ford to no end. It was going to be difficult to communicate his frustration and the danger they were all in if he could barely move his own head. But his brother's concern had perhaps more obvious sources, and lead to him being the next to speak.

“As far as I’m concerned, the last thing you _actually_ told me was ‘do something. And I did, so sue me.”

 _You did, and you may have doomed us all. You dredged up the worst thing I’ve ever done. Do you have any idea how many people you’ve put in danger?_ The thoughts raced through Ford's mind in a way any verbal accusations could not for the time being, and he wondered if there was anything he could even do with them. How he could make Stanley understand what he'd  _done_.

“Yes…” Ford mumbled, his thoughts simultaneously a panic and a sludge he could barely wade through to express anything in the slightest. “Yes, you... certainly did.”  
  
It was probably an anxiety he'd pushed aside years ago for others rearing up its ugly head, but he could have sworn the bandages wrapped around him felt strangely like they'd tightened.


	3. Chapter 3

Mabel wasn’t even sure she’d let out a sound indicating distress or not, but regardless she was grateful for the gentle squeeze Soos gave her in comfort. He had his arms wrapped around both of the twins, and her thoughts had been slowly wandering to very worried places. She squeezed his arm back, a reassurance that even if she couldn’t account for everyone at the moment, part of her family was with her and perfectly safe.

His soft grin down at her was almost enough to bring on tears of relief.

There had been a number of those. And of less-nice emotions. The fact was, when Mabel felt feelings, she felt a _lot_ of them. On the other side of Soos, Dipper sat quietly processing, the way he always did when big and scary things happened. But between squeezes and smiles and sips of cocoa, for the last hour or so Mabel’s tear ducts had been a faucet—not quite in intensity, but in the abrupt stop-and-start of their running. One minute she’d be grateful about Grunkle Stan having his brother back, and still being (mostly) who he said he was, but the next she’d remember her scary seconds of decision, or the fact that the grunkle she barely even knew was really, really hurt.

They were a lot of things to feel at once. And they were very, very different.

The question _“Do you think Great-Uncle Stanford is going to be okay?”_ had been perched on her tongue like a nervous baby bird, unsure if it was ready to try flying yet, for the better part of the last 15 minutes. She let it roll around there a bit more, feeling the weight of it press down on her almost physically.

She hoped he would—and not just because she always hoped _everyone_ would. Or just for Grunkle Stan. Dipper had spent the most time with the journal, but Mabel had flipped through its pages more than a few times herself. She wanted to talk to the person whose awkward margin notes and silly doodles had made her giggle more than once. Who’d drawn all those beautiful sketches.

She didn’t know this new grunkle very well, but the tiny fragments of a person that had been there all summer were shards of someone she wanted the chance to get to know, and who she now knew was _family_ . He had to be okay. He _had_ to.

Mabel was trying to push her thoughts into “Ask Great Uncle Stanford if he’ll color with you when he’s feeling better” territory, instead of the scary “Ask if he’s going to survive this” place they’d been parked in, when Wendy stepped into the room.

“‘Sup guys?” she asked, stepping through the door and looking the least-collected Mabel had seen her since that whole thing with the cult-guys. She had a tired smile on, almost as tired as her voice, but she recognized it for what it was—and returned it with one of her own.

“Wendy!” she said, not for the first time that day. “Is everything okay? Is he doing okay?”

“It’s not the _worst_ ,” she said slowly, though the question seemed like it made her nervous. “He’s not in great shape, but… uh… he’s awake now. That’s why I’m in here actually, Stan wanted me to grab a glass of water so we could get him to take some Ibuprofen.”

“Do you think he’d rather take it with hot chocolate?” Mabel asked cautiously, eying the cup in front of her and formulating the beginnings of a plan.

Wendy laughed, and it was a real, actual laugh, not the nervous ones everyone had been exchanging recently. Mabel thought it sounded beautiful.

“I don’t know if he’s ready for that yet, but he might appreciate the offer. Maybe it’ll help him feel a little less scared.”

“Scared?” Dipper asked from his spot on the other side of Soos. It was the first time Mabel had heard him speak up in too long, and he sounded nervous.

Wendy bit her lip, probably re-thinking her words, but kept talking all the same. “Yeah, he…  I don’t think he feels totally safe here. He didn’t seem to believe he was actually home. Which makes sense, but he was also acting… worried. Like if he was, it was wrong.”

“I mean, I’d be pretty worried too if I was all hurt like that,” Soos said.

Wendy nodded swiftly, like she was latching on to the explanation for comfort herself. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” she replied. “I think he’s got, like, a concussion too, he’s probably not thinking super clearly.”

“That decides it,” Mabel said. “I’m bringing him cocoa.”

“That’s cool,” Wendy said, grin creeping back onto her face, “But let me grab a glass of water too, just in case he doesn’t feel up to it, y’know?”

“Okay,” Mabel nodded. There was a nervous little bubble in her stomach that didn’t like that they had to think about that sort of thing. _Everyone_ should get to feel up to hot chocolate.

“Does everybody want to come?” Wendy asked as she turned on the tap. Fortunately, despite the damage the house had taken, it seemed to be one of the things still working.

“Sure,” Soos said. “If you don’t think we’d be crowding the Mr Pines-es, I mean. Unless something really is _wrong_...”

“I don’t—” Wendy started, then amended her statement. “...I guess he’s here no matter what, maybe some actual introductions could do something to calm down, like, everyone.”

Soos and Mabel nodded.

“I’m staying here,” Dipper said quietly.

“You sure you’re okay, man?” Wendy said, sounding worried again.

“I’m fine,” Dipper replied, in a voice that Mabel knew from experience was not fine, but didn’t want to talk about why it felt not-fine, and needed some time to have a chance at being fine at all again a little bit later (and probably also needed to be alone).

“That’s okay, bro-bro,” she said, knowing full well it didn’t sound like a response to his verbal one. He’d understand. Hopefully. “You can join us when you’re even-more-fine.”

Dipper gave a nod, one that felt almost fragile, but still appreciative.

As they had their tiny conversation in sibling—a dialect all of its own, and that Mabel didn’t expect the others to completely understand—Wendy and Soos once more exchanged concerned looks. But the minute it was over, the older girl slipped her unoccupied hand into Mabel’s squeezing it tightly as Mabel grabbed the fullest hot chocolate cup from in front of her and slipped out of her chair to join her.

“Ready?” Wendy asked softly.

Mabel nodded, more firm than the last time. “Ready.”

But as they walked out of the kitchen and into the spare room that she and Dipper had fought over what now felt like ages ago, her stomach started doing little flip-flops.

It was one thing to think about her great uncle being hurt, but another entirely to see blood splashed across his blankets, a pale and tired face the only part of him visible, and his eyes unfocused and cloudy-looking.

“Great-Uncle Stanford?” Mabel said cautiously, shoving down the uncomfortable worried feeling once more. It seemed like maybe she should be the first to speak.

Stan jumped at the sound, and his brother simply looked confused at her greeting. Mabel wondered if she’d said something wrong.

“Stanley…” her recently-discovered grunkle said weakly. “Who…?”

“Oh, um,” Grunkle Stan stammered, sounding like he’d been caught in a lie, or something similar. Really, this time it wasn’t so much his fault, if he was trying to figure out how to explain what Mabel thought he was. “Ford this is… this… um, say ‘hi’ to Mabel, she’s your… great-niece. Stayin’ with me for the summer.”

“You mean you—”

“—No, Shermie’s grandkid, not mine. C’mon Poindexter, you’re the one who’s supposed to be able to do math and stuff.”

There was a tired smile from the man on the sofa, and Mabel’s heart soared to see an expression on his face that looked a little happier than the pained ones she’d seen thus far.

He had a very soft and friendly smile.

“Forgive me for not…. exactly being maximum capacity…” he said, and she decided his suddenly-amused voice was a lot like his face. He set his eyes to look at her. “Mabel, was it?”

“Mhm,” she said. “I’m Mabel Pines and I’m 12 and I’m your bonus family!”

“She’s one of two,” Stan said slowly, scanning the room as if to make sure he hadn’t missed her brother in his worry-addled state. He seemed to arrive at the conclusion he had not.

“Mabel,” he asked quietly, “Where’s Dipper?”

“He needed some alone time,” she whispered back. Stan nodded slowly, concern evident on his face but clearly not wanting to make a wrong move where her brother was concerned. He seemed to take the note that things should be let sit at the moment.

“Anyway,” Stan said as he turned to his brother once more, “You got a niece and nephew now. They’re… here. I’m sure you’ll get to see them both at some point.”

Great-Uncle Stanford seemed like he was trying very hard to keep up his friendly smile and process a huge amount of information at once, and Mabel decided it might be a good time to offer him her gift.

“I brought you something, if you want some,” she said, holding out the hot chocolate mug. It was cupped delicately in her hands, but from his position lying flat on the sofa it didn’t seem like the man could see inside.

“What’s that?” he said, in the same fragile voice he’d used earlier that was almost more of a whisper, but sounded like it wasn’t trying to be.

“It’s hot chocolate!” she said, not letting his weakened state phase her and behaving as bubbly as ever. She was worried, of course, but it seemed the time to try to channel some of her natural enthusiasm for her uncle’s benefit “...Well, sort of more _warm_ chocolate,” she continued, “it kinda sat out for a little while, but I did save one with the tiny marshmallows in it, if you want them.”

“I don’t know if—” Stan started, but was cut off by both a sharp glance from Wendy, and the other Mr. Pines speaking up again.

He gave her another gentle smile. “I haven’t had anything…” he glanced nervously at his brother, then picked up again seeming like he’d remedied his words, “...anything _like_ that in… quite a long time....”

“And I got something else for you,” Wendy said, rattling a pill bottle she must have picked up as if to illustrate its contents to him better.

“Oh no, that’s—”

“—Can it, Ford, the cocoa is your call but i’m making you take somethin’ for the pain whether you like it or not. Doctor’s orders.”

“Now, which one of us actually has a…”

Stan popped the lid off the bottle of Ibuprofen, having taken it from Wendy as he spoke.

“Which one of us is being impossibly stubborn just hours after collapsing? Hm, let’s see…”

“Fine, fine… I’ll take it with Mabel, was it? I’ll… take it with... Mabel’s cocoa.”

She beamed at the strained words, realizing that there was every chance she _was_ actually doing something to help her grunkle feel better, and just how comforting a thought that was.

“Here you go, Great-Uncle Stanford,” she said extending the mug towards him.

“Just ‘Ford’ will suffice,” he said, trying to adjust himself so that he could sit up to receive the cup. Instead, he weakly fell backwards after attempting at all to sit up, fatigue and disorientation plastered across his features. Mabel drew back, her emotions flopping towards the worried side again.

“Woah there, Stanford,” Grunkle Stan said hurriedly. “Take it easy, take it easy!”

“I suppose… I ought to…” he mumbled after a few seconds, squinting at the light and moving to clutch his head. His arm fell limply downwards before it could accomplish the task.

Stan got a look of horrified recognition on his face, and gently knelt down to Mabel’s level.

“Sweetie, can you let me talk to my brother for just a second? You can give him the cocoa when we’re done.”

“...Okay,” she said nervously, stepping back to give Stan room. He whispered something in Great-Uncle Ford’s direction, something that included, from the few words she overheard “have you”, “food”, and “last 72 hours.” Something that made Ford hesitate for a very long time, then weakly shake his head back.

“Mabel, I’ll be in the kitchen,” he said, standing up suddenly. “You wanna… give him the cocoa, that’s fine by me, just be careful. And Wendy, Soos—make sure he gets those pain meds, I’ll be back to check.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Pines,” Soos said, as Wendy chimed in with a “Sure, alright,” and Mabel said “Okay!”

“Don’t worry, Great-Uncle Ford, we’ll figure this out,” Mabel said cheerfully.

It was as much for her own reassurance as his.

***

 

Dipper knew he had problems with getting so nervous about things he’d simply shut down. They were a challenge to be overcome back home, here in Gravity Falls—honestly, everywhere. And he didn’t like it. But the events of today were overwhelming him into oblivion, and as he rocked back and forth on his kitchen chair slightly, it was a mantra of forced optimism that kept it at bay at all.

_Everything’s going to be okay… everything’s going to be okay…. everything’s…. everything going to be okay…_

The truth was, nothing felt okay. It felt weird, and mixed-up, and not in the ways that felt like they might get fixed. Not anytime soon.

He’d spent all summer wondering about the identity of the Author, and now he knew. But for assorted reasons, wished he didn’t. Was this what it took? Was this worth answers? He knew he hadn’t summoned the man here himself, hadn’t been directly responsible for any of his injuries, but every minute he thought about the fact that his great uncle (his _family,_ the Author was _family…_ ) was very possibly in danger of dying, he felt sick to his stomach. Sure he’d wanted to find out. But not like this. Never like this.

The scary image of a figure clad in black stepping out of the portal and toppling over almost immediately, unable to stand on his own, needing to be carried up the stairs, bleeding out… it just kept repeating, over and over again in his mind.

He’d managed to keep it at bay enough around everyone else, as Stan told the story and he realized what was going on, even helped explain things to Wendy, but it was all hitting him at once as “too much” and he didn’t know how to make it stop. The weird stuff he and—he’d thought, at least, and can’t have been completely wrong—the Author (no, no… Great-Uncle Stanford....) had loved so much was supposed to be interesting, supposed to be.... Well… well it wasn’t supposed to be this.

It made his whole summer feel like an awful lie, a fairy-tale someone had ripped the ending from, or twisted into something darker and crueler and ten times more unfair. You were supposed to _stay_ inspired by things that caught you that strongly. They were supposed to be _good_.

Now all Dipper's idolizing of the journal and the man who wrote it brought to mind was terrified, rambling passages written in invisible ink, and blood on the pages, and every dark thing about the book he'd assured himself wasn't the  _point_ of it all, wasn't the  _real_ meaning.

Was this the sort of thing his curiosity lead to? 30 years trapped somewhere awful, and a homecoming of weakness and blood?

He shuddered.

“Hey kid,” came a voice from behind before the idea could be further contemplated. Despite recognizing it as Stan’s almost immediately, it still made him jump. “You doin’ okay?”

“I just want to be alone!” Dipper said quickly, not knowing what else to say.

“That’s… that’s fine,” Stan said slowly. “You can. But I need the kitchen right now, as far as I can tell it’s been too long since my brother had something decent to eat.”

Unsaid went the obvious insinuation, buried in layers of a worried voice, that Stan didn’t like his twin’s chances if he _didn’t,_ and soon.

“O-Oh…” Dipper said, cheeks flushing. He shouldn’t have assumed Stan was coming in to check on him.

“Although somethin’ tells me maybe it’s not such a bad thing I came in here…” Stan said, looking at Dipper with concern.

Or maybe he should have, and this was a multi-purpose errand.

“I… I’m just,” he stammered slowly. “He… is he gonna be okay?”

Stan sighed. “I hope so. He’s actin’ tough. That’s probably an okay sign.”

“I’m so sorry,” Dipper said. “You shouldn’t have to.. _I_ shouldn’t be... so...”

Stan made a gruff noise that felt like disagreement, but also an affection or comfort he couldn’t quite express. Dipper had started learning what those sounded like this summer, and his opinion of his uncle changed drastically when he realized their true frequency.

But what Stan actually _did_ say, pulling a can from the cupboard above him with an awkward grace, was “You wanna help me make some soup?”

It caught him by surprise, but nonetheless Dipper hesitantly agreed.

“S-sure,” he said. And was surprised to find the thought did seem to assuage some of his nerves—having something helpful to do made all this a little bit less scary, and a little bit more like something he could deal with.

"Grab a pot from under the sink, would you? We gotta have something to make this in, after all."

"Okay," Dipper said, scrambling off his chair. That in itself was an accomplishment—just minutes ago he was horrified by the thought of ever leaving it.

For someone unwilling to say he was helping you out loud, Stan did an incredible job of multitasking care for his family.


	4. Chapter 4

Dancing lights scattered across the ceiling Ford stared at, a product of reflections from the hallway crossing the prisms scattered about the room. It was a painful reminder of two things: the fact that his family was still awake, and treading on tiptoes to try to let him rest, and of certain other mistakes that were pressing heavier on him today than they had for nearly thirty years.

He was exhausted, for good and obvious reason, but his mind, it seemed, wouldn’t yet let him get the rest his body required—and that the other inhabitants of the building that was once his home were hoping to allow.

_They’re all in danger, you know… they’re all in danger because of YOU…._

Well. Not all because of him. Largely so, and perhaps initially, but there was also Stanley's refusal to listen to his warnings to be considered. Truth be told, every time he thought about the danger the portal's reactivation posed, he was caught in an awkward mixed current of his own self-loathing and of emotions he wasn't ready to contemplate—emotions that were now over 40 years old. Shame at his previous failures, general frustration directed at his brother... one feeling battered him to the figurative left, the other to the right, and Ford was caught in the middle of a suffocating maelstrom.

Half of him wanted to race down to the basement this instant, scrabbling to dismantle the entire object of his hubris and hoping to somehow contain the damage his return must have caused to the space-time continuum. But as if things needed further complication, there was also the other half of his consciousness.

The half that acknowledged he was too weak to stand.

The half that couldn't think straight to process any of the above, because of his head injury and malnutrition.

The half that acknowledged that earlier that day he’d been spoon-fed watery broth by the same brother he had such difficult feelings towards. That even if he had felt nothing but rage, he was suddenly entirely dependent on the man.

Sure, there were others here, but Ford wouldn’t place the burden of caring for him on mere children, or a teenage girl, or even the single other adult present, who as far as he knew had no reason to care about him beyond relation to his employer. Stanley was the only person he had any meaningful connection with, here or anywhere, and the thought weighed heavily on him.

The single link he had to another human being was immensely complicated.

And then, of course, the others were another difficulty entirely. Relations… _family_ … He hadn’t yet discerned who exactly was and wasn’t living under the roof of his old lab-turned-home of the crew from earlier, but the number seemed to be at least two beyond his brother — his _niece_ and _nephew_.

It had probably been naïve to have forgotten his family might have expanded in the three decades he’d last seen this earth, but he'd done so all the same. It wasn't so much that he'd genuinely thought of his home (when he'd thought of home at all, as it was a rather painful subject) as _static_ for the past thirty years, but rather that it hadn't occurred to him just how  _fast_ it was moving without him. Fast enough for children to be born and grow up without him even knowing they were there. Even coming home was like stepping into another world—No. No it wasn't. Stepping into other worlds was something he actually had experience doing. This... this was another thing entirely. Something he  _didn't_ know how to navigate.

A twinge in Ford’s leg sent pain racing up his body and he cringed, realizing that he was probably due for another dose of the pain medications Stanley had insisted he take earlier. But everyone thought he was asleep, and just as before, he didn’t want to be any more of a nuisance than he was already. Not to mention he wasn’t sure how he’d make the request anyways. He’d tough it out.

 _You can’t tough_ all _this out though_ , something in the back of his mind whispered, and he tried to shove it away. _You’re in no state to fix everything, and only you know what’s coming. You’re going to have to trust them…_

“I… can’t…” he whispered, realizing only after the words had escaped his lips that he’d been so earnest in them that he’d spoken aloud. Fortunately, the door to his room had been shut to try to give him some peace, and so no one heard and questioned them.

It was as he contemplated this that he finally succumbed to the protests of his battered body, and into slumber.

Even his rest, though, seemed to refuse to be restful.

Ford found himself almost immediately slipping into a dream. He stood in the midst of a seemingly endless field of wheat, tall stalks softly brushing past him in a nearly-indiscernible breeze, only made evident by their movement. Something about the air of the place sent a shiver running up his back, unnatural and unnerving and several other unpleasant, "un"-related adjectives all at once.

The second sensation he noticed was that he stood firmly on the ground, unfettered by his injuries in the mindscape. Really, this was the startling observation that made him firmly aware he was dreaming. Prior to that he’d been in the sort of fuzzy acceptance which accompanied sleep, that made one think everything strange that happened in a dream seem perfectly natural. Now that he was more lucid, he wasn’t sure what to expect.

Ominous rustling, as the field around him flattened into a sickeningly familiar geometric shape, proved to be the final cue.

“Bill Cipher,” he breathed as a cackling laugh he knew all too well filled the air.

“The one and only!” came a shout back, as the demon in question materialized in the air above him. “Oh, Sixer, aren’t you a sight for sore eye?”

“What do you want from me, Bill?” he asked gruffly, assuming there had to be a reason for this visit. Almost certainly to do with Ford’s recent homecoming.

“Right to business, huh?” Bill said. “No time to greet an old pal?”

“You’re nothing of the sort and you know it,” Ford said, but his voice cracked on the words. Before he could even speak, he’d cringed—unsurprisingly, for a creature he’d once let run free in his own mind, Bill knew exactly where the chinks in Ford’s emotional armor were. The places he could get a reaction if he struck. If anything could stir up the fire of his already-kindling guilt, by reminding him of his long-ago gullibility Bill had just fed the flames.

“C’est la vie,” Bill said, shrugging. “I just thought with you making things so _easy_ for me…”

“I couldn’t have known that portal lead back here!” Ford protested, knowing exactly what the demon was referring to. Destabilizing spacetime. Tearing holes in reality when the portal was re-activated. Finally making a reality the instability Bill had used him to try to create, 30 long years ago.

“And you’re telling me you wouldn’t have waltzed right through anyways?” Bill asked. “That you haven’t spent the last fraction of your miserable life secretly hoping one of them would pop you out at home anyways?”

“I.. I…” Ford stammered.

“Face it, Sixer, you’re weak. _Really_ weak now. I’m lucky I can pop in for a chat in the mindscape because outside of it, you’re barely even there. And that rift you tore in reality by retreating here is only going to get worse while you make your pathetic effort to recover. Which is why I thought I’d stop by to say ‘thank you’!”

Ford seethed quietly, although anger was far from the only emotion present, and some of it was getting directed at places other than the dream demon. At Stanley, for ignoring his warnings in the journal and reactivating the device; at himself for being as weak as Bill said and equally foolish years earlier...

These things were best not to dwell on.

“I’ll stop you!” he said.

Bill laughed again. “How? Maybe you’ve forgotten in here, but you can’t even sit up. You’ve got no one you can trust, no one who can help you, and you’re almost literally flat on your back. I mean, not that your pointless threats don’t usually make for a good laugh, but this one’s even funnier than usual!”

Ford bit his lip, heart sinking at the truth in every word Bill spoke. He could dismiss the demon as a liar all he wanted, and it would always be true, but even a liar could see the hopelessness of his situation. Even a liar could tell him his home dimension was probably doomed.

Head swimming with buzzing cocktail of fear and anger and guilt, Ford was sure he could speak next. Fortunately—or really, unfortunately—he didn’t have to. Bill plowed on with his tirade.

“You can’t stop the inevitable!” he shouted. “And especially not in your current condition. Might as well admit it, Stanford, you’ve already failed!”

“I haven’t failed until you’ve broken into this dimension,” Ford said. “Which I can’t help but notice you haven’t done _yet_.”

Bill’s eye shot him a glowering look, one of the sort that felt almost like it could kill. Were they outside of a dream-world, Ford wasn’t entirely convinced it couldn’t.

“That’s only a matter of time,” Bill said. “Something _I’ve_ got a lot more of than you do.”

As he spoke, Bill snapped two of his fingers. On cue, flames sprung up around them, forming something like the eye of a hurricane in the inferno—a single untouched circle, amidst the field burning to the ground. Ford leapt backwards, startled by the blaze, only to realize he was surrounded on all sides.

Bill’s huge, dark shape rose higher and higher in the sky above him, seeming to grow in size all the while too until it dominated his vision. The entire world was a blur of black and red and yellow, of smoke and cackling laughter. Everything—time, his senses, his heart—took a momentary pause of fear and horror as the vision jolted him awake.

He didn’t have much time to recover from the sensation.

Breathing heavily, it took Ford’s survival-trained senses only moments to discern that he wasn’t alone in the room after emerging from his nightmare, and he struggled to quickly gain composure.

“You okay, Sixer?” came Stanley’s concerned voice. Ford shuddered at the nickname, after having heard it from the mouth of his worst enemy just moments before.

“Ford. Please just… call me Ford,” he panted, panic refusing to subside.

“Sorry," Stanley said, a twinge of something unplaceable in his voice, "...You okay, Ford?”

Regaining his senses as he shook off the last vestiges of the mindscape, Ford idly wished that some of them weren’t returning. Perhaps the figurative language was a product of his nightmare, but his entire chest felt like it was on fire. The same went for his injured leg and hip. In fact, every location the beast had mauled him was currently burning with an intense pain. Involuntarily, he let out a groan.

Stanley gave a nervous laugh as he shuffled around the darkened room, making his way over to where Ford laid on the couch. “Dumb question, I guess. I might be able to help you some though, seein’ as those meds we gave you earlier must’ve worn off by now.”

Ford gave a tiny sigh of relief—one that contained as much as his current situation allowed. So that was why his brother was here. To give him more pain medication. He’d worried at first that in the throes of his dream he’d awoken others with frantic shouting or other panicked noises. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

“Mm,” was all he said in response, hoping the soft affirmative sound would suffice as a response. Other thoughts dominated his brain, at the moment.

Other thoughts he couldn’t talk to Stanley about.

“No need to sound so grateful,” Stanley sighed, carefully guiding Ford’s hand towards a glass of water. Ford pulled it away, not wanting his brother to feel how much he was shaking.

“What, you can’t hold it?” Stanley asked, sounding worried.

“Something like that…” Ford mumbled.

“What’s wrong? You’re actin’ all jumpy, not just hurt, somethin’ has to be—”

“—I assure you, it’s nothing,” Ford said. What he was leaving off, of course, was that it was nothing he felt he could discuss in present company.

“Doesn’t seem like nothin’—you’re shakin’ like a leaf!”

 _Damn._ He had felt it.

“I may be… fatigued…” Ford lied

“You need somethin’ more to eat? More blankets? Less blankets?”

 _I need to go down to the basement and try to do damage control,_ Ford thought to himself, but instead just gritted his teeth in pain when trying to sit up proved to be too much exertion.

“No,” he said quietly. “It’s alright.”

“Clearly it’s _not_ ,” Stanley said. He was starting to sound exasperated. Truthfully, Ford was feeling exasperated too. So much still had to go unsaid between them—largely, the fact that Stanley reactivating the portal was the exact cause of his current anxieties—that being alone with his twin made for awkward, stilted conversation.

When it came down to it, Ford’s warring emotions were taking as much of a toll on his mental capacity at the moment as his injuries were. On the one hand he knew if Stanley hadn’t saved him—and ironic as it might have seemed, given his current stress over the consequences, “saved” was the appropriate word—he wouldn’t even be around to worry. And given his single-minded determination in ultimately destroying Bill, living to fight the demon another day had probably bought the entire multiverse some time. But on the other, his brother had put him in an impossible predicament. He was around to try to thwart Bill, but incapable of even the weakest act of resistance. And at the same time, Gravity Falls was in the greatest danger it had been in for 30 years.

And then, of course, there was the matter of how he’d ended up inside the portal in the first place.

So no, he wasn’t alright. He was incapacitated, slightly terrified, and quietly seething. But even Ford knew how narrow his escape had been and just what odds had been stacked against him surviving his recent encounter. How stacked against him they still could be, no one were helping him.

But he’d been quiet too long.

“Hello? Earth to Stanford?” Stanley said. “You still in there?”

“I told you, I’m fine!” Ford snapped.

“Well _that’s_ the straightest-faced lie I’ve ever seen you tell,” Stanley said, and Ford retroactively realized how foolish the exact words he’d chosen were.

“I merely meant—”

“—You meant you don’t want my help, is what you meant, huh?” Stanley said.

Ford pursed his lips. It was blunt, but it wasn’t exactly wrong.

Even unspoken, Stanley seemed to pick up on the message.

“Fine,” he said, frowning as he offered Ford the water glass once again. “If old grudges run that deep, I won’t bother you long. I was just comin’ in to wake you up, since with that concussion of yours we’ll have to keep doing this tonight.”

“The injury was sustained more than 24 hours ago,” Ford muttered.

“Oho, well sorry for bein’ cautious with your well-being.”

“ _Stanley_ …”

“Listen, I can take a hint. I’m leavin’. Wouldn’t want to get you all worked up anyways, that can't be good for your head either.” 

The water in the glass Stanley offered him sloshed a little as it was roughly shoved towards Ford, almost as if it were trying to escape the cup.

"Just take the meds and I'll get outta here, okay?"

Ford hesitated, grabbed the water glass, and accepted the pills Stanley was trying to hand him. Moments after he'd swallowed, the glass was quickly snatched away.

"I'm still comin' in to wake you up every couple of hours," Stanley said gruffly. "Can't be too careful. But I'll leave you be."

As his brother closed the door, the emotional battle inside him threatening to restart, Ford could have sworn he still felt the heat of flames on his face.


	5. Chapter 5

Breakfast with the Pines family was generally a noisy affair. Maple syrup bottles were lightly bickered over, the table was pounded on, (and as a result things were spilled), and the chatter, whatever it was about, was almost constant.

Which made the silence that blanketed the table currently a distinct anomaly.

Soos and Wendy had both spent the night, holing up in the TV room since the house’s open bedroom was now occupied and no one wanted to disturb Ford any more than was necessary. They sat at the table with the twins, all four of them poking idly at bowls of cereal that were the most anyone had felt like cooking. Even the bright neon of Mabel’s favorite Extra-Sugar Filled Marshmallow Toasties didn’t do much to brighten the scene.

Stan sighed, looking out at his family from the stovetop, where he was preparing a bowl of soup, with a slight twinge of regret. This wasn’t how today was supposed to be. This wasn’t how getting _Ford_ back was supposed to be. Sure, he’d entertained the possibility that not all might be right with his brother when he got back, but Stanley Pines was, in some ways, forever a stupid optimist, and despite the odds a tiny part of him had always insisted that everything was going to be alright. It was the same part that had brought him up to Oregon in the first place when he’d gotten that damn post card. The same part that kept him working on the portal for 30 whole years.

But instead of a heartfelt reunion and properly introducing Ford to the kids, his brother was dangerously fragile and Stan felt like he was treading on glass if he even tried to talk to him. It made him wonder if Ford would even have given him the time of day if he hadn’t collapsed on the floor upon his return and needed nursing back to health.

It wasn’t alright. It was _complicated._

Stan tested the temperature of the soup he’d poured into a bowl earlier, deciding it was probably ready. He wasn’t sure how Ford would feel about having the same thing for breakfast as he’d been fed last night, but given how long he’d confessed to going without food before, Stanley didn’t want to push him too far. And there were only so many things his brother would eat.

He idly wondered if and how he’d found enough food in whatever other world he’d been in. It was the kind of question that, were they on better terms, he might actually ask him.

Coughing slightly to break the silence, Stan lifted the soup bowl and turned to face the others.

“I’m gonna go… give this to Ford,” he said, watching as everyone’s heads snapped up simultaneously, like a synchronized prairie dog colony alerted to a sudden threat. They sort of looked it too, with how on edge everyone's nerves were. Most all their expressions were largely indiscernible—what looked like quiet acknowledgement from Soos and Wendy, possibly concern from Mabel, and a confusing, nervous expression plastered across Dipper’s face. The latter kid was practically vibrating in his seat with whatever the emotion was.

“I’ll be back,” Stan started, “so—”

“—Can I come with you?” Dipper blurted, then immediately looked like he regretted it. “I mean… if it’s okay… I was just thinking… if _he’s_ okay… I never got to introduce myself to him yesterday, and I was just thinking it might be nice to, you know…”

“It’s alright, kid, you can come,” Stan said, a small smile creeping across his face.

Dipper seemed to be infinitely relieved, taking on the same look he got on his face when he decided no one had heard him muttering under his breath to himself.

“Let’s go before this gets cold though, okay?” Stan said, lifting up the bowl of soup to gesture lightly, without letting it escape.

“Of course!” Dipper said quickly, sliding out of his chair to head towards the doorway.

The two of them made their way down the hall to the room where Stanford was resting, Stan stopping gently at the door and holding an arm out that Dipper ran into so that he could look inside and see if his brother was awake yet. He didn’t seem to be.

“Not sure if we should just let him rest, or give him another round of pain meds with soup,” Stan said. “I don’t think he got much sleep last night, he probably needs this.”

“Grunkle Stan…” Dipper said, before Stan shushed him slightly. He continued, quieter this time. “Grunkle Stan, he’s not asleep.”

“Huh?”

“I said he’s not asleep, just… really really tired, I think. I don’t know, I can just see his eyes open… oh my gosh, is something wrong? Something’s wrong, isn’t it? What’s wrong?”

“Hold up kid,” Stan said, easing his hand slowly away from holding back his great-nephew. He was slightly miffed that his eyesight was so far off (thought the room _was_ rather dim) that he’d missed the slim but crucial detail that Dipper had observed. But he was a bit slower to panic than the boy was, and hoped to go about things in a matching manner.

“Ford, you okay?” he called.

There was no response.

“Ford?”

This time, a low mumbling sound made itself known, a barely-audible “mmph” that almost didn’t make it out the door, but beckoned Stan inside all the same.

He set the soup that was intended to be Ford’s breakfast on a nearby desk, instead crouching near to where his brother lay to get a better look at things. Behind him, Dipper trailed nervously into the room, looking unsure as to if he should be there.

“What’s wrong, buddy?” he asked gently, mentally filing away their argument the night before to be angry about another time, when Ford’s condition wasn’t so confusing and stressful. This whole situation was a violent emotion war, and he was having trouble keeping the ones that needed to be separated from interfering with each other.

“Cold…” Ford mumbled, which automatically tipped Stanley off to there being something wrong. His brother was many things, and “eloquent to the point of annoying” was at times one of them. Particularly when he was annoyed with someone, Ford’s vocabulary tended towards one extreme, not the other. Such a simple answer spoke volumes.

“Cold?” he said, resting a hand on his brother’s forehead to judge for himself.

He drew it away almost immediately. Ford was burning up.

“Stanford!” he said, drawing back the blankets on top of him. “I can tell you why you feel cold, it’s ‘cause you got a monster fever!”

Thinking he already knew the culprit of his brother’s sudden turn for the worse, Stan grabbed some clean bandages from the nearby cardboard box Wendy had brought in yesterday and started to unwind the ones currently around Ford’s shoulder. Sure enough, once clear, the red and swollen injury underneath bore the telltale signs of infection. Stan was almost positive that it would be warm to the touch.

Leaning back, he sighed. Nothing could ever be easy with them, could it? He _probably_  shouldn't blame himself for not catching this last night, exactly—he’d had other things on his mind and the onset of even a serious fever could be quick, especially if Ford had done what he usually seemed to in cases like this and disguised the fact he was starting to feel bad. Or worse, Stan supposed. But still, there was a nagging feeling in his brain that maybe this was the fault of shoddy observation.

He quickly re-bound the wound with the clean bandages, knowing full well it wasn’t his best workmanship, but also that he’d be back to re-do the redo as soon as was possible. He needed more than was at hand to properly start deal with this new complication. And first, there were other matters to attend to.

Dipper being one of them.

The kid was peering nervously at them both from a distance, clearly trying to discern if he was still supposed to be there or not. Stan wanted to be honest with him, but also remembered how he’d kept his distance yesterday. The last thing he wanted to do was re-feed any anxieties. But lies had almost cost him everything in his relationship with the kids recently, and the last thing he wanted to do was give them reason to distrust him again. Especially Dipper, who’d seemed more suspicious of him in the first place.

“He’s getting worse,” Stan said slowly. “I… I think we can still help him, but it’s not pretty, if you want to head back to the kitchen I won’t blame you. This might not be the time for introductions, anyways, I gotta get some things.”

Dipper’s face fell, clearly distressed by the news, but it wasn’t long before he put on a braver one, and spoke determinedly.

“No, I want to stay.”

“You sure?” Stan said, slightly surprised.

“I’m sure,” Dipper said. “If you need to go, maybe it’ll help to not leave him alone?”

Stan grunted in agreement—in his current state, he wasn’t sure they should leave Ford alone at _all_.

“I can stay here,” Dipper said. “I’ll keep him company… make sure he’s okay.”

Stan nodded, once again grateful for the infinite patience of the kids—they were really something.

“Better get you two acquainted, then,” he said. “Stanford?” he added softly, turning back to his brother. There was a small nod of acknowledgement from Ford, nothing more. “Stanford, this is Dipper. He’s… he’s your great-nephew, the one I told you about yesterday.”

He bit his lip. The slow nod of acknowledgement from Ford was a bad sign, the movement looking to be a relatively great exertion from him. Given how warmly he’d greeted Mabel yesterday, it could only be explained by his condition deteriorating.

Stan rose from the floor, wincing slightly as his back cracked in the process. He fell behind Dipper as the boy stepped forward to trade places.

“You don’t have to do this if this is too much for you, alright?” he said cautiously, heading for the door. “If you need to, you can leave.”

“I will,” Dipper said.

What went unsaid as Stan nodded to him was the fact that he was starting to feel like he needed someone to tell that to himself.

 

* * *

 

Dipper took a deep breath as Stan gently pulled the door behind him, dimming the light in the room even further. He could do this, he knew he could. Nothing about keeping an eye on his uncle should be difficult.

Maybe for other people it wouldn’t be—but his anxious thoughts from the day before were bubbling up once more, vying for domination of his brain.

_“This is what your curiosity will get you….” “None of what you’ve idolized this summer has been good….” “You’re so preoccupied with the Journals that you can’t even help the Author now that you know who he is…”_

That last one proved the hardest to squash, but he managed nonetheless, slowly slipping one of his hands into a larger, six-fingered one, and giving a tight squeeze—meant to reassure himself as much as his great-uncle.

The truth was, Dipper was having a difficult time reconciling his emotions at the moment. He felt worried and confused and selfish all at once.

Worried for the obvious reasons, of course, but also even more than that—worried that he’d spent his summer believing a dangerous lie, that maybe not everything was as he thought it was, and numerous other anxieties. Confused for all of the previous above, and the impossibility of understanding everything that was going on, like he felt he _had_ to be able to do. And selfish because… well… he’d had such high hopes.

Dipper had spent the summer searching for the Author partially because he wanted answers, but partially because he’d felt a sort of kinship with the writer of the Journal whenever he read it. He supposed that now the relation was proved to be very literal, but there was still something else, something beyond that. The feeling that he could have found someone to ask his questions, to connect with… it left a sort of hole in his chest to know that the man he’d built up to be so much was currently capable of so little. And he hated the feeling—his concern should be for a hurt family member, shouldn’t it? Not some ideological construct he’d spent the summer building.

But at the same time, even as Grunkle Stan had told the story of him and his brother’s past, there had been a slight fluttering in his chest—” _kinda nerdy”, “always had an interest in anomalies”, ”came out here to study all kinds of weird stuff”. W_ ith each word like that, there was something in him wondering that if everything were better.... if everything _got_ better… he’d have a chance to talk about the mysteries of Gravity Falls with a similar mind yet.

Assuming it wasn’t too selfish of him to hope that in the first place.

Either way, first he was going to have to take some smaller steps.

“Great-Uncle Stanford?” he said quietly.

“...Ford…” came the also-quiet reply, with a genuine smile.

“Oh, okay,” Dipper replied quickly, “Great-Uncle Ford. I know Grunkle Stan already gave you a little introduction and all, but I guess I want to do one myself too?”

 _So that this feels real…_ his brain supplied, but that bit went unspoken.

“I’m Dipper Pines, your great-nephew, and I’m staying here for the summer with my sister, who I think you met yesterday. I thought I should come in and say good morning… although… I guess this isn’t a very good morning. I’m sorry.”

There was an amused-sounding noise from Ford, followed by a “...’s alright, my boy.”

Nephew and great-uncle alike fell silent for a spell, just the sound of their breathing filling the large and suddenly very empty-feeling room. Neither spoke—Dipper wondered slightly if neither had anything at all to say.

Well, he supposed there was one thing.

“I’m glad you’re still feeling okay enough to talk,” he blurted suddenly. “Like, even a little bit.”

There was a soft chuckling from Ford, like a low rumble, that turning into painful coughing somewhere halfway through. Dipper didn’t know how to respond and, panicked, squeezed his uncle’s hand tightly again. When the fit subsided, he was surprised to feel a gentle squeeze back.

“I-I’m here,” he said, not knowing what else to say, “Are you okay?”

Great-Uncle Ford gave a terse nod, but something seemed awkward about it, like the motion pained him. It was a lie, and it showed in his posture, but Dipper could only feel concern as he noticed it.

“Do you need anything?” he asked. “Grunkle Stan left to get some things that should help, but he’s not back yet and I could too.”

Ford’s shook his head in response.

“Are you sure?” Dipper said, already having gleaned the suspicion that Great-Uncle Ford was the sort of person that didn’t disclose everything when he was in distress. “We could always try some of the things that help you when you’re feeling sick… even though you’re not _exactly_ sick, you know. It’s an idea. If you think it might, like, help at all.”

A small smile crept across Ford’s face again, and Dipper’s spirits lifted at the sight. Every time he got a positive response from the man, it meant volumes—he was doing okay, he wasn’t messing this all up.

And maybe, despite everything, and how deeply his fantasies had been shattered, a tiny part of him was screaming a bit over possibly impressing the Author. Maybe he’d still get to ask some of his questions, talk about some of the mysteries he found so fascinating yet. Maybe everything was going to be okay.

“Okay, is that a good idea?” Dipper said, confidence growing. “I can think of a few things that help me when I get sick…um, how about…?”

He trailed off, thinking for a moment. Great-Uncle Ford wasn’t really in any condition for some of the things he was thinking about, and the others he didn’t want to try without Grunkle Stan’s okay. But maybe some of the things that helped to pass the time, to serve as a distraction… he didn’t know that much about his other great-uncle yet, but maybe he could think of something….

A fairly obvious answer suddenly popped out at him.

“...You like books, right?” he said, hoping the assumption that someone who _wrote_ some might also be a heavy reader. That, and maybe hoping the tiny feeling of camaraderie he’d gotten might yet exist. Hoping that it wasn’t entirely selfish of him to see if he really had found someone he connected with.

“I’ve got a bunch up in my room, that I brought from Piedmont—that’s where Mabel and I are from,” he continued. “We could go through some of those while we wait for Grunkle Stan to get back, if you want?”

Ford hesitated to speak but kept smiling, then in a raspy voice, still affected by the coughing, said “Of course.”

_Yes! Oh my gosh, yes!_

The same little fluttering he’d had the other day, hearing about Stan and Ford’s life story, was back and strong. Face brightening, he started to get up from where he knelt on the floor. Partway through rising, though, he paused.

“You’ll be alright if I go, right? You won’t, like, need me while I’m gone?”

Ford gave another gravelly laugh, this time unmarred and uninterrupted.

“I’ll be fine,” he said.

“And I’ll be quick,” Dipper replied, “I promise, okay?”

He gave his uncle’s hand one last squeeze before leaving, and smiled widely when it was returned.

 

* * *

 

Fumbling with the mirror that serviced as the door to the medicine cabinet, Stan kept up an internal mantra meant to reassure himself, but that was largely failing.

_This is just a setback, this is just a setback, this is just a setback, this is just…_

“Damn it!” he said under his breath as both the panel swung open and hit one of his hands sharply and his internal monologue sounded completely flat.

His mind raced as he first grabbed a box of band-aids to take care of the cut on his hand his rushed opening of the cabinet had resulted in. There was no reason to risk cross-contamination later on because he’d been careless.

And careless was _exactly_ what he’d been.

Sure, part of him was reassuring that this all might have been inevitable, and that while bad, it wasn’t impossible to take care of, but Stanley couldn’t help but feel like part of this was all his fault. His fault for messing something up treating Ford’s wounds yesterday, for leaving them untreated as long as he’d had to while they were trapped in the basement—another situation he couldn’t help but see as his fault—and he couldn’t take care of them, for not noticing this last night…

He felt especially guilty for last night. He’d slacked off slightly in his checking up on Ford after their argument early in the evening. Maybe if he’d been more vigilant, had caught this sooner, Ford wouldn’t be in such drastically worse condition.

Had he been feeling worse already by the time they’d bickered with each other? Stan remember his brother’s shaking hand, and felt like kicking himself for not at least investigating further. This feverish state was probably all evening in the making.

Done with the band-aid, he pushed aside assorted pill bottles in search of the slim box that contained their thermometer, catching sight of it as several of the aforementioned bottles fell into the sink.

He didn’t pick them up.

There were more important things to attend to.

Once downstairs, he hesitated, wondering if racing straight to Ford’s room was the wisest choice or not. Recalling his panicked state taking care of his brother the day before, and exactly what had helped pull him out of it, he decided against it. Ford’s health wasn’t worth risking on impulses.

Instead he headed into the kitchen, where Soos was now doing the dishes as Mabel and Wendy chatted quietly at the table. He hated to break things up if they were finally making it to a more comfortable state, but the latter of them was who he was looking for.

“Psst,” he said from the doorway, “Wendy.”

She looked up from her conversation, eyes serious—they both, apparently, remembered yesterday clearly enough to jump to the conclusion there was about to be a repeat of events.

“Yeah, Mr. Pines?” she asked, levelly as ever.

“C’mere for a second, okay?” he said, trying to keep his own voice Wendy’s level of cool and collected.

He stepped into the hallway and out of the doorway where Soos and Mabel—who were giving them both very quizzical looks that Stan wished he could address at the moment—were for the most part out of earshot if they spoke quietly.

“What’s wrong?” Wendy asked immediately, her voice now serious.

“We got another problem with Ford,” he said.

“I figured, yeah. I mean what’s the problem?”

“Infection. I don’t know on how many of his wounds, but at least the shoulder. It looks bad, and he’s burning up worse than Mabel’s pig in the sun.”

Wendy exhaled a long breath slowly, clearly racing through her knowledge of treatments already. The conclusion she came to, though, made Stan’s heart sink.

“Mr. Pines, you gotta get him to the hospital—this is out of our depth, and I mean _way_ out. If we’d just done it yesterday, maybe—”

“—’Maybe’ is pointless right now,” he growled, knowing exactly where she was going with that statement and wanting to cut it off before the words were actually out there in the air. He’s been repeating them in his own head long enough.

“So you’re going to call an ambulance?” she said. “Or should I do it?”

“Wendy, we _can’t,”_ Stan said, pleading with her.

“Mr. Pines, if we don’t your brother could—”

“—You think I ain’t worried about that?” Stan said harshly. “Look, you missed some things yesterday so let me explain to you explicitly why that’s not an option. We take ‘Stanford Pines’ to the hospital and he gets sent to the feds as soon as he’s recovered and clapped for my criminal record.”

“What if—?”

“—We mix things up and try ‘Stanley Pines’ and he also gets arrested for my criminal record.”

“Why am I not surprised you’ve been going strong for a while,” Wendy sighed. Stan decided to ignore her and plowed on.

“Even worse, he get conscious and has no explanation where he’s been for the last 30 years, or worst of all tells the truth, and I don’t even want to think about what could happen to him.”

“Best case they think he’s completely crazy,” Wendy said under her breath, the severity of the situation sinking in.

“Exactly,” Stan said.

“Mr. Pines, even I don’t know the best way to treat an infection, and even if I did, if it’s as severe as you make it sound—”

“— _I_ do,” Stan said. “And don’t ask why. But if I’m gonna try it, I need you to… I… well…” he stumbled on the words.

“Yesterday,” she said. “You need yesterday.”

“I mean, if you’re offerin’ it…” Stan replied.

Wendy smirked. “You can’t turn this one around, old man. You came to me for help.”

“Yeah, well… you’re not half bad at it. Sometimes. When you try.”

The smirk grew into a full-on grin, plastered across Wendy’s face.

“Forget that I said that!” Stan muttered as Wendy laughed. She punched him lightly in the shoulder.

“I can do yesterday,” she said. “Let’s go, okay? I think you’ll want time on your side.”

The two of them made their way down the hall, but whatever Stan was expecting would greet them when he stepped into Ford’’s room, it wasn’t the scene he actually saw.

Dipper sat cross-legged on the floor, one of his hands completely enveloped in Ford’s larger, six-fingered grasp. In his lap was one of his sci-fi novels, and three more sat next to his right knee.

“ _...of the planet Dorsfant,_ ” he was reading aloud, “ _The system’s five other planets guarded it from attack, as it was the nearest the Sun, which the locals called…”_

He looked up, embarrassed, when he saw Stan and Wendy in the doorway, and Ford actually turned his head to where Dipper’s eyes were directed, surprised at the interruption.

There was a moment of silence as everyone processed what was going on. Stan was the first to speak.

“I wasn’t expectin’ a nerd-fest in here,” he said. Dipper blushed, looking more than a bit embarrassed, and Ford was so tired his expression was almost impossible to read, but it seemed to feature echoes of the same .

“We were just... waiting,” he said.

“Well you can keep waiting once I’m done in here,” Stan said, hoping it came across as at least slightly affectionate. “But why don’t you clear out for a bit while we try to take care of some things, kid?”

“O-of course,” Dipper said, already dog-earing the page he was on and getting up to leave with his book. He gave a concerned look back at Ford as he reached the doorway where Stan and Wendy stood.

“Dipper,” Stanford said, so quietly it almost couldn’t be heard.

The kid’s head snapped back immediately. “Yeah, Great-Uncle Ford?”  
  
“Thank you.”


End file.
